on what is hard to say

A few weeks ago, I was visiting some college friends, and held A, their 3 month old, for five minutes. (It was kind of like holding a cat, except I got drooled on.) In those moments, I felt a combination of terror and confusion. I thought, what if holding her makes me want one? I don’t want a kid, not even theoretically, but what if it’s so contagious that just seeing her small baby ears makes my ovaries swell and I Suddenly Understand? (In the end, I returned A to her mother, and my ovaries seemed to have remained their normal size.)

I conceived of this blog, originally, as a place to write what I wanted to, instead of waiting for other people to allow me to do it. What I considered only marginally is what I would allow myself to say. There are things, though, that are at the front of my brain that I have been reticent to write about, mainly because I’m nervous about alienating my friends (total strangers, not so much). Just as the personal is political, the political, of course, is deeply personal. I wrote a piece last week for the Sisterhood in which I talk about the reclamation of feminism and the boundaries around it. Read the piece, of course, but basically, I assert that you cannot be a feminist if you are anti-choice and not at least an active ally to the queer community.

I’m wary (and somewhat nauseated by) the blanket statement that feminism is about choice, and therefore every decision that gets made by women is in the name of feminism. Socialization of gender is at work in everyone’s life, and no one can rightfully claim they’re exempt from it. It impacts all of our choices. The ones I’m most interested in, and the ones that get me in trouble in my non theoretical life, are those that concern marriage (of the heterosexual nature), the surname “challenge, and childbearing (to do it or not). These choices are all rife with issues around race, class, sexuality, etc, and yet I can’t help but notice that all around me, (outside and in my Jewish/lefty worlds) women all seem to make the same choices.

I’m not insinuating that one should do or not things just to make a point, but at the same, at the heart of my desire for equality (another blanket word that makes me nauseous) is my belief that everyone should be able to access their full potential, and that means being able to see clearly, in spite of the obstacles of bullshit that are in the way. The way we’re programmed to see our gender is directly related to the way we see our choices in the world.

It’s very often difficult to understand where expectations and social morays end and our genuine desires begin and even more difficult to ask ourselves why we might want (and not want) certain things. J recently told me that a friend of hers revealed to her that she was the first person to ask her, “What if you didn’t get married?” This friend had literally never thought about a life without marriage, as I suspect many of us have not. Maybe she’ll get married, maybe she won’t, but what matters most to me is that we not treat such things as though they are an inevitability. For me, at least, it’s thrilling to imagine this young woman considering her life now, and all the possibilities, terrifying and beautiful, that have opened to her.

 

One Comment to “on what is hard to say”

  1. I grew up the middle of five children, and therapy is helping me to realize that my childhood wasn’t very happy. (They ganged up on me a lot, and still do.) That might have a lot to do with my zero interest in raising children.

    When I was a little girl, I NEVER dreamed about my wedding. Not even when we threw a wedding for my four year old sister and her best friend. (My older sister officiated, I held the chupah, and they honeymooned in the backyard.) I came into feminism in middle school, so it was an earlier awakening than many, and I don’t recall ever taking for granted that I would get married and have kids. In fact, a recent change has been that I’ve realized it WOULD, in fact, be nice to get married, or at least find a connection with a significant other. When I consider what a potential wedding would be, I first shudder (it’s a matter of reassuring pride that I don’t have a dream of a wedding, and I don’t want to have that dream), and then I think that I would probably opt to go to City Hall and just do the civil service. My orthodox father and his family would probably kill me, as would my mom’s anti-orthodox family, for depriving them of the celebration. But I’m reticent to even make plans to celebrate my birthday. It’s hard to imagine wanting to make a big deal about a wedding.

    I realized some time in high school that I had zero desire to go through pregnancy and labor (in fact, it seems really awful and terrible), and I also don’t want to raise a baby. My older sister feels similarly, so maybe it was something in our childhoods. I can think of at least two women (whose blogs I read) who proudly explain their choice to not procreate. I get surprised when people get surprised that I don’t want kids. I do think about being a foster parent to older kids (I think I could be awesome at it, but the unknown is scary, and it would obviously depend on my financial situation and what kind of partner support I’ll have.)

    I know SO MANY amazing, wonderful women, and relatively few amazing, wonderful men, and the men who do qualify are inevitably gay or taken. I don’t want to settle, and I do believe it is possible for me to find an amazing male feminist life partner out there, but I’m not sure how probable it is. I wonder at how necessary a SO really is, in terms of life fulfillment, versus what society tells us to believe. And yet my favorite genre is YA (I’m not a literature snob), and the plotline to every book is pretty much a romance, so what does it mean that the book I want to write based on my life has no plot?

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